


Time to Care

by AwatereJones



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alt Verse, Gentle time to connect slowly, M/M, Not a big story, Romance?, Small thought, an idea not expanded into a full story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwatereJones/pseuds/AwatereJones
Summary: An At Verse where Jack and Ianto have all the time in the world to find one another. No aliens, no Gwen ... just two people who move around one another before finding that they are dancing. This was a story concept I have not expanded, looked at it and saw no need as it had all the thoughts in the condensed verson I put down.  So this is just a small idea, another Verse these two might have existed in, a quiet life, a little care given and some time. All the time in the world for them to move to the music of life. It is only 7 chaps, just a little brain tickle I wrote down and now don't feel the need to expand into an entire big thing. I am working on my other stories that are still pending completion and such so this is just so you have something in the meantime, even if it is a bit ... beige.Luv my crumbly xxxx





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

 

Doctor Owen Harper had been forceful in his talk, time taken to run a finger along a dusty mantle and show his long suffering friend that it was time to look around and see that it was not just his heart that was rotting away out here in the country house. The house itself needed some drastic attention.

Jack Harkness decided to find a caretaker through an ad he placed. As a reclusive writer, he didn't much care for what he got, but had some wishes. Since he'd never married again, the idea of having a female moving about the big empty house made him both worried and uncomfortable after the loss of Jessica… this had been her home and he couldn't bear the thought of another woman touching her things. He asked for a male, a Gentleman's Servant instead.

He had been happy to live quietly at the end of a long, dusty road, but found his cleaning habits left too much dust around. He wanted to write, not clean house. He didn't want his solitude interrupted, but would appreciate having the dust gathered out of the corners and the occasional hot meal he didn't have to prepare himself. And if it shut Owen up … well … all the better.

So he placed an ad through an agency. He paid them to find and pre-interview the applicants. They would send over one at a time, only sending the next in line when an earlier one disqualified themselves.

And the reasons for the disqualified applicants seemed inconsistent and even frivolous. But the company was only paid to send applicants, so the money would keep coming to them until Jack ran out of it, or they ran out of applicants. (Word can get around about certain ads…)

Owen was watching the latest man storm away from the house with stilted steps like he had a bug up his butt the size of a bloody cow. Jack wandered out onto the porch and leaned against the leaning post, softly scuffed after years of the same use so the paint had worn away and a soft curve to the wood was evident, watching the man glance back with distain before getting in his Hover to speed away.

"Another one bites the dust" Owen said sagely, "Not hard, it is everywhere ya know. A blanket of horror"

"I will choose one, but it has to be the right one" Jack scolded his friend with a soft glare, sick to death of this needling the man had started.

Owen hummed as he bit in to another slice of cake. The latest hopeful had been prepared, the cake, a good spiel and a confident air … soon popped like a balloon when he had stepped into the house and saw the work needed to make it habitable.

Jack and his weird habit of only living in a few rooms while letting the others fester under a blanket of dust seemed unappetising to the poor sods who all turned tail.

Owen was starting to wonder if Jack was deliberately shooting himself in the foot each time, enjoying the insulting gasps and exclamations before the inevitable fleeing of the house like they had seen a Grobitt?

"You are never gonna choose one. You are a big fat liar!" Owen said before taking another bite, "But at least you seem to be having some fun."

Jack huffed as he folded his arms, "You choose then. Tell you what, next one that comes .. .you interview him and see his nose twitch as he smells the shit needing to be shovelled around here!"

"So crass to my poor innocent little ears" Owen whined, "Horrible potty mouthed man!"

"Twat"

"Fucktard!"

The two men smiled at one another briefly before Jack's smile faded back to its usual frown and Jack pushed off the post with his shoulder to head back inside.

Owen got out his phone to ring the agency,

They had to have another one. Gods at least one more right?

Maybe ten had been their limit?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rambleinblue for you since ya asked

Ianto was himself quiet and happy to have such a job. He was a student of writing, but had never published. His shyness found him many admirers, but never a long relationship. That's not to say he didn't have strong opinions. And perhaps those were what drove his would-be lovers away. He never talked about his personal life, even when asked. Lisa was … gone.

How he got hired was a bit of a mystery. Jack simply walked into the the kitchen for a cup of coffee and found this young man standing there with his sleeves rolled up scrubbing at the wall with a look of determination, muttering to himself in some strange language. Jack was pretty sure he recognised 'pig' a few times but could not be sure.

The coffee pot was over half full, the cup on its matching saucer from … goddess knows where … sat with a few mouthfuls left of black coffee in it, Jack leaned over to sniff and found honey in the air. A sweet tooth?

Jack poured a cup and leaned back to watch as the young man knelt to rinse the cloth into the bucket of water not unlike the colour of the coffee despite the wall space he was scrubbing only being that of the surface of the small dining table Jack was now seated at.

It was in that moment that Jack felt the change in the house, as the man crouched and his arse pushed those trousers to capacity, unaware of the effect such a move might have to someone watching from behind, Jack felt the house physically take a breath.

The man then rose and walked out the door no doubt to fling the water out and get fresh leaving Jack staring at the patch of wall no longer a dull brown colour but… white?

Jack rose and walked over to look with interest at the small flowers speckled on the paper and wondered when they had been put there. He had never remembered that pattern in here and canted his head as he now saw that when he had inherited the house, Jessica's cries of distain were maybe not that farfetched and his refusal to change the kitchen that he loved the most might have been unwise.

It had been a soft tan colour even then.

Huh.

There was wallpaper under the years of dust and grime form the old wood stove, huh? Jack was flabbergasted that the young man would choose to even start on this room but then he looked around again, taking in the coffee machine that was clearly not part of the scene, it's gleaming chrome and determined air telling him it was as settled as its master was becoming.

"Well then" Jack said as the man re-entered with a fresh bucket of water from the washhouse "I'll … get back to my book."

"Yes, of course. Dinner will be at noon unless you like to eat later? Early afternoon kind of grazer are you?" the voice was melodic, almost hypnotic and Jack blinked as he focused on the young man who he now knew was not local.

"I usually have my daytime meal closer to one or two. I eat my evening meal late, after dark" Jack replied and the young man nodded as he looked around.

"Good, seems wise. Eating in here in the dark"

Jack blinked and before he could stop it a snort of amusement bubbled out. Then the young man was scrubbing again and the moment was gone, Jack blinking with surprise as he slid from the room to cradle the cup of black gold in the hallway. He pondered this strange event.

He slid back around the doorframe "Look …ah…."

"Ianto"

"Ianto" Jack repeated, "I like that. Sort of rolls. Look, I might ignore you, please don't take it personally. I ignore everyone."

"Doctor Harper said" came the clipped reply as the young man bent at the waist this time to reach the bucket and Jack took a breath along with the house.

He decided to retreat and consider things.

He entered his room and sat at the desk with confusion. Owen? Owen had been here earlier and had tried to talk to him but he had been struggling with a plot hole and had simply grunted until the man left. He picked up the file Owen had left for him on the desk, Ianto Jones the subject matter and it was a brief single page blurb inside like a book that hadn't had enough reviews to gain it's following yet.

_Ianto wasn't outspoken much, but was firm and unmovable when he was. It wasn't that all things should be a certain way, but certain things should be kept in certain ways._

Jack liked that statement from an ex-employer.

He was a bit unmovable too.

He picked up the phone and confirmed the placement.

The hiring company took this minor loss of income in their stride.


	3. introducing colour

Jack got used to the thick curtains on the west being open in the morning, and those curtains on the east only open when the sun had passed the house peak, where the west curtains would be closed. The house was warmer.

He didn't mind that if he came in early from his walk with Janet, he wasn't allowed back in his own study until the cleaning was finished.

Ianto didn't work to keep the porch as spotless as the rest of the house inside. So when Jack was refused access to his inner chambers, while Ianto was cleaning, he would come out here. He took the rough broom and ash shovel, and pick up the worst-offending dirt clods and dried mud clumps. He'd even pick up his boots to put them outside on the steps so that he could empty the tray they sat on. All to help get rid of some of the dust. At least those in the form of dirt clumps.

He hadn't noticed before, how had he not noticed. Ianto had, did and was silently disapproving at times. He spoke rarely, cooked excellently and his coffee was to die for but it was in the moments where Jack caught him unguarded that were the best.

One afternoon he had caught him sleeping, the large Formal Room that had been covered with drop cloths for years, Ianto's pet project that week. The young man had pulled off some cloths in one corner, he seemed to do that. Section off a room and do small increments like it was some adventure instead of a task. Jack had even caught him singing in that strange language, sometimes low and haunting and sometimes a high pitch, soft and almost childlike.

It was the silence that had brought him to the room, the sudden loss of the nightingale that had Jack checking that he hadn't died from dust consumption or something.

Ianto was curled on the sofa, his shoes neatly on the floor where he had toed them off and his hands were together under his cheek as he lay curled on his side like a cat, all snug and asleep. All he needed was a tail to curl around himself, his child-like pose making Jack pause and then wonder if he had a pencil and paper.

He sketched him quickly, afraid the man would wake and find him there in the chair watching over him like some letch. But he didn't. Jack hadn't drawn in years, had forgotten the comfort of losing oneself in the moment, soon humming softly as he recorded the curves and valleys of the handsome man.

It was not until he rose to leave did he recognise the tune, the one Ianto hummed all the time.

Moonlight Serenade.

It had been his grandfather's favourite, he hadn't even thought of him in years and with a soft smile of melancholy he padded back to his office in order to hunt out the old photos of the house when it was in its glory, no doubt Ianto would love to see how it once sat.

Ianto opened his eyes to watch Jack slide around the doorframe in the weird way he seemed to dance more than walk and shot to the pad, picking it up expecting to find some verse or maybe a chapter subject or something.

He did not expect to see himself in his feigned slumber.

He had been so embarrassed to be caught catnapping so ashamed to be asleep on the job and had hoped the man would simply retreat. He hadn't expected him to settle and stay. Even if it was sort of … nice to have company. Ya know? This huge old house was a bit scary and solemn. Poor old thing needed some life in it again.

Ianto smiled as he looked at his portrait and wondered how this man … so silent and brooding could be so damned sweet as well, the little touches like the wild flowers in the vase on the table this morning after Jack had retuned from his walk with the infernal dog he insisted on calling Janet even though it was clearly male. Ianto had sat for a long time enjoying the splash of colour before fixing to choose another piece of wall, then deciding he didn't want to spoil the room today.

Jack had set it.

He had chosen this one instead and grid marked it out, small steps. Small bites at a time. An accomplishment each time he marked it off in his head and removed another cloth. That's how Ianto works see? Self pride. It would take days, maybe weeks to restore this room and that was too long to wait for a reward so he chose to reward each grid within the room with a nap, a small treat of some sort. Those chocolates he kept under his bed … a dollop of honey in the coffee … a moment to watch Jack as he strode across the un-mowed lawn yelling lustily at the dog to pick up its own damn ball.

Those pleasant things that made him feel real. Alive again.

But this picture….

Ianto blushed.


	4. a ricketty boat

In Spring Jack would find occasion to take his heavy tan overalls and dark brown coats to put them into a standalone faded porch cabinet out of the sun. Heavy gloves would go into porous bags made from pillowcases, putting in sets onto one of its upper shelves. It was a thing. He did it every year, had since he was a small child in this house helping his Grandfather do the same.

Ianto had watched with interest as Jack did these thongs, changing his entire wardrobe bar a few items he seemed to wear all year around. He was making an effort and Owen noticed as well, looking at the bags Jack was now hefting up the ladder to the attic, his winter clothing going away as the other bags of summer stuff that he had already dropped down waited to go into the wardrobe cavity. Old fashioned, this changing of the guard thing when a modern wardrobe would change the hangers at the push of a button but Jack seemed stuck in this old world.

Ianto slid past and a cup of coffee was slapped into Owen's hand silently, making him smile at the ease of the handoff. Ianto still didn't talk to him, a glance or shy smile as he nodded a greeting was all he got but it was clear that in the couple of months that he had been here Jack was slowly responding to the presence of another human being.

After five years of mourning it seemed that Jack was finally ready to step back into the glare of life. Ianto holding the candle for him, to light the way.

Owen had hoped as much, Ianto reminding him of another man he once knew. Along time ago when only youths Jack had loved a man fiercely, both of them inseparable until that young man's death. Owen had thought he might never forgive himself for not saving him that night, the accident no one's fault. Jessica had been a surprise, a happy one that had ended so sadly with both her and the child lost.

Now … Ianto was waking him up again with each coy glance and gentle prod. Owen did note that they did not eat together, the table set for two once he had confirmed he was staying for the evening meal with a tray to be carried off by Ianto and he decided to comment on this. Jack was openly surprised as he hadn't noticed.

"He eats in his room I think" Jack frowned, "Ya know … it's too small for living in. I should have put him in the big one Grandy always had. Room for a couch, table and chairs … a real space for someone who wants to curl up with a book. He likes books ya know. Grandy's personal library he slept in might please him. I'll mention it next time he wafts past."

Wafts?

Oh boy … Jack had noticed him then.

While Jack was busy in his study for hours, Ianto would finish up his housework and do some writing of his own on the kitchen table. Jack had noted that he always had a yellow legal pad in his spot by the door and would find him writing at it when he came out into the kitchen for more coffee. Ianto was so quiet sometimes that at first Jack would turn and jump when he saw the bowed head, then he got used to it almost … sad when he turned and found the chair empty.

Ianto's chair.

Ianto's spot. Jack had started to leave small things there for him, an old photo of the front yard that had been placed on the cork board by Ianto's' chair to show he had appreciated that one, now pinned alongside an advertisement from the local paper about some spring bulbs that Jack had left their with the money to purchase some.

Of course Ianto had, the little telltale turning of the garden that late winter before the little spurts of green now peeking through told Jack there would be daffodils soon. Ianto was becoming a part of the fixtures, Jack now feeling weird on the days Ianto left the house for town, the ancient Hover returning with shopping and a huffy Ianto who seemed to dislike people as much as him.

He mentioned the larger room, led him there and watched as Ianto did something that would be etched in his brain forever.

Jazz hands.

Ianto was been overwhelmed by the floor to ceiling bookcases with the large bed in the middle of the room, a desk behind the head of it, a sofa at the foot like a boat lost in the sea of tomes.

"Oh Jack!" Ianto had sighed, "It's lovely."

He had used his name. Not 'Sir' he had used his first name.

Jack felt like a winner that day.


	5. time to dance for a while

Ianto's long, filled-up legal pads were stacked up neatly in a corner of the room until they were nearly as high as the desk top. That sturdy oak desk and his warm swivel chair with its plush seat, plus a small goose-neck lamp, were the only things he seemed to need. They were placed at a definite angle to his bed, not aligned to any wall. An oval hook-rug, created with brown, tan, and a few green yarns as accent, fit under the desk and chair. This was the only covering for the wood tongue-and-groove plank floor. Cold underfoot when getting in and out of bed but the slippers placed covertly by the bed sorted that out.

His current pad was placed at an angle where he could write easily and read quickly. The pages were all flattened back into the original position, so each would stack neatly once filled. At the end of his writing, a sharpened pencil was placed as a book mark on top of the last incomplete page, under the filled pages on top. A small pile of fresh pads were placed along the far left corner of the desk, precisely against the edges.

There was a white, chipped porcelain mug of pencils on the desk, within easy reach, but not close enough to get in the way. These pencils were always kept sharp and the points up. Only just enough pencils that they leaned away from him, able to be grasped easily with an almost casual gesture. Another matching mug was to the left of this, with dulled pencils facing down. Ianto would deposit a dull pencil to pick up a new, sharp one in a single, efficient motion. The mugs had been in the kitchen cupboard now replaced with large white ones that had two blue stripes. Jack had been surprised and elated to find them, they held more elixar. Typical Ianto who had kept these two battered offerings, unable to throw away something that belonged here. A bit beaten and battered, two weary soldiers.

The single drawer in that simple desk held more supplies of the same.

One small tin trash bin, set next to the front right table leg, carried any trash away daily, after the writing was done.

The bed was the main star of the room, the couch at the foot of it used to hold the neatly pressed clothing before Ianto then placed it away in the hidden shelving, behind the bookshelves. Jack hadn't even known it was there and the first day in there, Ianto had found the fake wall, pushing it effortlessly to reveal the storage room he now used as a closet.

Jack's Room was not so tidy. Its walls were filled with shelves as well. Books were crammed into their place with various bookmarks. They were of all sizes and widths. Some covered with ragged dust jackets, others were scarred and scuffed paperbacks. other bits of tat were stuffed in gaps, like some sort of explosoin had thrown everything at the walls. If a book was pristine in condition, it was usually in a pile on the floor. Once Ianto tried to straighten those piles into a neat and tidy alignment, but Jack wouldn't have it. Apparently the corners sticking out told him what book it was and what was in it. He didn't expect to have to read the title on the spine to do so.

A big wide table was used as his writing desk, with an old keyboard and all-in-one monitor on it. Old mugs held a variety of pencils, pens, and markers. Pads and notebooks of graph paper stuck out above or beyond the books in stacks next to the computer, and between the table legs at its base. A pile of memory chips had its own zippered binder, which was kept open by the stacks of them.

The study was big enough for Jack's double bed against one wall. A single night stand was at the side nearest Jack's desk. Ianto changed the sheets on this weekly, and rotated the covers with the seasons.

Ianto would only dust and sweep and tidy in that room as he understood the need to organised chaos sometimes, things moved might cause pain when it was needed later. No papers changed position. He did empty the trashcan once a week. Jack would sometimes throw a wadded paper into it and then recover it.

After a spat and a fit about a certain thrown-out paper, Ianto found a duplicate of his trash can and would rotate the new for the old, keeping the spare still filled with last week's "trash" in a closet near the study door. If Jack knew of the arrangement, he said nothing.

Ianto did find that closet door ajar every now and then… Otherwise, the house was as it had been for hundreds of years.

They moved around one another like dancers in a long running display of prowess.

It seemed to work.

Life went on, seasons changed and to Owen's astonishment three years passed with the two men living in harmony.


	6. warmth in the cold night

The only sounds were the birds in the trees, the occasional cow calling for its calf, and the patter of Jack's keyboard.

Ianto's own quiet cleaning assisted his own inspiration.

The house was spare, minimalist. For the renovations, Jack had given away most of the furniture, and didn't replace it once he moved in. Relatives had taken anything they held valuable, and charity organizations were glad to take the rest.

The kitchen contained the most furniture, and had four chairs around an oak table. It had a stained top, rimmed in black trim around its curved corners. Painted plywood cabinets were built in, although held little besides some canned goods and boxed foodstuffs. Stove, refrigerator, microwave, sink completed the spare outfitting.

The living room had a simple, padded oak bench for a couch, an oak coffee table and two brown padded chairs with tall backs, all arranged facing the old fireplace. Jack had installed a fireplace insert to cut down drafts. Another hooked rug covered most of the wood floor. Two floor lamps by the chairs completed the furniture. Panelling covered the plaster walls. Here, too, there was nothing hung on those walls. The mantel of the fireplace was bare. This was a room kept clean for necessary visitors, which were few and far between. The spartan condition of the room wasn't inviting for them to stay long or come back.

Then came the first winter, Jack got quite ill. This was when Ianto had moved Jack in to his room, along with space in the wardrobe for his clothes. After he nursed him back to health, Jack never moved out again. Neither Ianto or Jack talked about this much. Or said much when they did answer someone's question.

People in town might have talked about this, but it didn't matter to either Ianto or Jack.

The only comment was made to Owen when he realised this three years later as Jack went to change the subject "It was warmer that way and I still find him warm to hold in the night."

Ianto did the weekly shopping for food and house supplies. Jack visited the local weekly livestock auction regularly. He was there to check the prices for his cattle, and as much to get inspiration for his books. In town, or at the auction, they had conversations, but were known to just smile and nod more than voice any opinion.

Both seemed content with how things went.

They would talk over meals, in quiet and short sentences. Otherwise, the silence of the big farm house was only affected by the season's storms that occasionally thundered, or whistled, or roared.

The porch was most affected by that weather, more than the occupants. Jack now cleaned it daily, Ianto's nod of approval meaning more than Jack would ever admit to.

In summer, the screens would let some wind-blown rain in. Jack was sure to make sure they didn't have holes, Ianto's scream of horror that time a little Biddy-boo had managed to get in had almost given Jack a heart attack.

Who would have thought, a big gorgeous…er… adult man panicked over a small purple mousey thing.

By the end of each fall, the windows would replace them and be battered by gusts.

The fire would be banked up and the two chairs used as they sat after their meal to 'let it go down' the silence satisfying as neither saw the need to speak.

Jack would usually signal the end of the night by moving the screen across the fire and Ianto would rise, taking their cups through to sit in the sink, a rare show of defiance in leaving a dirty dish or two unwashed overnight in the pristine kitchen.

Small steps.

Although Jack chose bedtime, he always followed Ianto with a hand on the small of his back. Ianto would fold back the bedding as Jack undressed and slid in, the covers then getting placed over him gently before Ianto would undress, fold both their clothing and then return to slither into the warm spot Jack was moving out of over to his own side of the bed.

Again, this was not something they had ever discussed. It had just happened that way.

Once the lights were out, cuddles would lead to kisses then to other affections and afterwards Jack would hold Ianto fiercely like the storm raging outside might take him away.

In the winter, the windows would frost over. Both Jack's and Ianto's boots would bring in snow, sometimes ice.

The spring would rotate the windows back to storage to let fresh spring air in again.

The house inside would stay temperate and clean. Both writers would be hard at work in their comfortable silence, regardless of temperature or wind outdoors.

There was no need to talk, not really.

They were both happy with their worlds, entwined in the world of one another.

Two vines that could not stand without the support of the other.

.

.

.

yes three years had passed like this ... as I said at the beginning, this is a story I decided not to expand but there would have been more between chaps before the three year jump but this story just didn't fly for me amymore.


	7. a slow dance, not a tango but a waltz

Ianto received a present one day. Jack had a laptop delivered for him.

This was one of the few times they had a discussion outside of meal times. Ianto seemed to protest, but Jack repeated that he thought that would help speed his writing progress.

He revealed that he had read several of the yellow pads and found them to be quite good. "Sufficient for publishing," was his phrase.

Ianto blushed, one of his rare few times.

Jack also had a satellite installed that year to bring them Internet access, but no TV. Before this, Jack would mail a memory chip of his works to his publisher. What mail he got before that was in letter form or he answered on his phone.

This weird way of distancing himself from the outside world seemed to agree with them both, Ianto never missing the modern life he had left behind.

This one was more comfortable anyway.

His quiet mentorship of Ianto got his first book published. And they started sitting in the living room in the evening, each in their own tall padded chair. Jack had gotten them both e-reader tablets and they read each other's works.

Jack wrote Romance, Ianto wrote mystery-adventure stories.

They'd make notes in the margins and as bookmarks of sentence improvements and apparent plot holes. Their sharing sped both of their works, and improved them.

Ianto started putting love interests into his stories. Jack started including more mystery and action in his. Eventually, they became co-authors on a few longer stories. And readers started finding the other's works. Both Ianto and Jack became well-known under their own names, as well as many pennames.

When Ianto started bringing childbirth and child-raising scenes into his stories, Jack brought this up at one of their meals. Ianto thought this was an interesting element that he wanted to explore.

Ianto started a children's series. Jack produced a series with a family adventure in it.

Unknown to Jack, Ianto had added a freestanding shelf to the next room, and had put books on it. When this was filled, he started stacking books on the floor beside it. They were neat, tidy stacks and organized by size with the largest and thickest nearest the floor. A small stool kept the lowest one high enough to be swept under.

One day, Ianto found that one of the kitchen chairs had been moved to the room, and a book had been left on it. A bookmark was in a particular spot. He left it exactly as he found it.

Day after day, he saw that the bookmark moved further through the book. And when it was about to reach the end, another book took its place and the process continued.

Jack soon found a nightstand had been placed on the far side of their bed. A book was on it, with a bookmark. He noticed it, but didn't touch it. Its bookmark moved through the book gradually, and then another book would replace it.

With a silent agreement that was sealed with matching bookmarks, they began to read one another's work.

Some months later, Jack brought an antique single bed with new springs and mattress from town. He assembled this in the other upstairs bedroom. Ianto later brought back a wardrobe and chest of drawers, plus a nightstand. Jack then brought a small set of shelves. And put Ianto's series of children's books in it, neatly arranged.

Ianto had Jack's series of family stories placed on a bottom shelf.

Jack and Ianto still live and write in that old farmhouse at the end of their long, dusty road.

In the evenings, they still sit in their tall padded chairs and make notes on each other's writing. Meanwhile, a child is between them, quietly playing with his toys or reads books on the hooked rug that covers their living room floor.

In the afternoons, you can see the three of them walking around the farm, hand-in-hand as they check the cattle and get their inspirations for more writing.

Their child has plenty of ruled pads to draw and write in.

And a sister on the way.

As it should be with a couple who deserve a long loving if quiet life.

..

.

.

.

Thanks for reading. As you see, I had the idea for a story here but it never seemed to gain traction. I wanted to share it though, a snippet of a world without Torchwood, aliens or loss. Just them in a slow dance. Something we all wished for them really.


End file.
